Black Hammock

by Michael Wiley

  I went downstairs. Oren behind me. The smell fingering down my throat. I pulled my dress to my face. Breathed through the cotton.

  But Oren said, ‘In my job you get used to it. I mean you never really get used to it but …’

  In the front room Walter was shoving a mattress across the fireplace. He favored the leg that the dog had bitten. He looked feverish. Cristofer sat on the floor by the bookshelves. Keening. His eyes wide. Mom was carrying chicken carcasses from a pile by the fireplace to the front window. Wearing rubber kitchen gloves. She had a cigarette between her lips. She breathed in through it and breathed out from her nose. As if the smoke could filter the stink of death. Oren’s friends had dug up the pit where Tilson had buried the chickens. They had lugged the rotting meat on to the roof. They had dumped it into the chimney. I recognized Goneril the gray.

  ‘Wait,’ Oren said to Walter. But Walter squared the mattress against the fireplace bricks. Oren went into the kitchen. Came back with a mop. Pushed the mattress away. He stuck the mop handle up the chimney and stirred. Feathers and flesh fell out of the flue. Bounced off the damper. Broke apart on the grate. The sour smell of spoiled chicken. And sugar. And acid. Oren poked and pulled the mess. He moved it out alongside the dead birds. He said to Walter, ‘If you get all panicky you’ll miss what you need to see.’

  Walter shoved the mattress back over the fireplace. And said, ‘Where the hell were you last night?’

  ‘You look like you didn’t sleep,’ Oren said.

  ‘I slept fine,’ Walter said. ‘Always do.’

  Oren went to the window and looked out. The first sunlight was turning the sky orange. The pickup trucks and motorcycles were dark and quiet. Oren’s friends were invisible in the yard.

  ‘What did you do to deserve this?’ Oren asked Walter.

  ‘Go to hell,’ Walter said. He limped across the room. Collapsed into the green chair.

  Oren said, ‘People don’t attack others like this without a reason.’

  ‘Why don’t you go out there and ask?’ Walter said. ‘If they won’t tell you, maybe at least they’ll shut your mouth so I don’t have to listen to you.’ He looked at Oren square. Like he was fighting to recognize the boy he thought was dead. And fighting against recognizing. Because of what that would mean.

  Mom carried the rest of the chickens to the window and heaved them out. One by one. Then went into the kitchen and came back with a jug of vinegar. She sprinkled it on the hearth. Scrubbed the hearth stones with a rag. Threw the rag out the window. The room smelled like death and vinegar.

  She went to the kitchen doorway and sank to the floor. And lit another cigarette. Oren sat down next to her and cocked his head. ‘Right after your first husband disappeared you painted your best self-portraits,’ he said. ‘The reviewers called that work a breakthrough and I agree with them. One said you painted the symmetry of chaos. Another said you found balance in disproportion. One said something about old ideas of discordia concors. My favorite said that you arrange fragments of a broken woman so perfectly that we might think that we’re looking at an unblemished beauty.’

  ‘I don’t feel like talking about painting right now,’ Mom said. Her eyes were sunken.

  ‘I think you need to,’ Oren said. ‘I have the feeling that you’re about to have another breakthrough.’

  She said, ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Doing what?’ he asked.

  ‘You need to stop,’ she said. ‘You need to—’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  He looked at me and got up. He went into the kitchen and found a knife and came back to Mom. As if he would cut her.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘No?’ He eyed me. Curiously.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ he said. He sat in the doorway again. Shoved one sleeve of his suit jacket up to his elbow. Unbuttoned his shirt cuff and shoved up the shirt sleeve. He held the knife blade against his arm. And jerked it back. Blood rose through the split skin. ‘Yeah,’ he said to Mom. ‘You’re on the verge of a breakthrough.’ He dipped a finger into his blood. Drew the rough outline of a face on the floor.

  ‘Don’t,’ Mom said.

  But he finger-painted a picture with his blood. A stick figure with breasts. Then he finger-painted a boy.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mom asked.

  ‘What’s it look like?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t recognize them,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a still life,’ he said. ‘Call it what you want.’

  She took a deep breath and gagged. Dry retched. Spat out white flakes of saliva.

  Oren got up. He bandaged his arm with the handkerchief from his suit pocket. Buttoned his shirt sleeve over it. Straightened his jacket.

  I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the kitchen. ‘Stop it,’ I said.

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘I’ll tell them who you are,’ I said.

  He ran a finger down my face. ‘Why haven’t you already?’

  I hit his hand away. ‘I don’t care what they did to you. You can’t—’

  ‘And your dad?’ he asked. ‘You don’t care what they did to him?’

  ‘All I know is what you’ve told me,’ I said. ‘Nobody else thinks anything bad happened to him.’

  ‘Except your next-door neighbor,’ he said. ‘And the police detective. And you. You’ve always known that something was wrong. If you didn’t you would have told them about me as soon as I told you.’

  ‘Until a couple of days ago I didn’t know you existed,’ I said.

  ‘But you were waiting for me anyway,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve never needed you. Never missed you,’ I said. ‘I’ve taken care of myself.’

  ‘And of Cristofer too,’ he said. ‘You’re a good person. More than good. That’s why you’ve waited for me. It’s why you need me.’

  ‘Because you’re not good?’

  ‘I am what Amon made me,’ he said. ‘I’m as good as I can be. I’m what Walter and Kay tried to destroy.’

  ‘What are you going to do to them?’ I said.

  ‘What wouldn’t I be justified in doing?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘I’m supposed to forgive them?’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to walk away? I don’t think that’s what you really want.’

  ‘Then you don’t know me,’ I said.

  He said, ‘When you were a baby and Kay left the house to see Walter I would pick you up and carry you around the way that Amon used to carry me. I would tell you the names of the household objects. I would read Amon’s books to you. I saw the hunger in your eyes. I saw the anger. I’ve known you since before you knew yourself.’

  I said, ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I won’t walk away.’

  ‘Then I have no choice.’ And I went back into the front room. ‘Mom,’ I said. ‘Walter—’ But Walter was at the window with his .22. And Mom was carrying rag-wicked jars of turpentine to him. ‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

  ‘Get the jars,’ Walter said.

  I stood in Mom’s way. ‘What’s happening?’

  She nodded at the window. ‘They’re coming,’ she said.

  The generator in the bed of the yellow pickup ripped and hummed. Floodlights burst on and made the early morning sky bright. The pickups stood end-to-end. Forming a barrier wall for anyone on the other side. Walter squeezed two shots from the .22. The bullets hit the side of the yellow truck. A ball of flame rose from the yard beyond the trucks as if the gunshots had triggered an explosion. A wave of light and heat rolled over us.

  Walter shot again. And a second ball of fire rose in the yard.

  He set down the .22. He lit the rag on one of the turpentine jars and threw the jar out the window. It bounced on the ground and went out. He lit a second rag and threw the jar. It sailed over the first one. Broke in the yard. Made a pool of flame.

  Out on
the hill another ball of fire erupted. Bigger than the others. Lifting into the sky. Blocking the rising sun.

  Walter fired the .22 wild until he spent the magazine. And still he kept pulling the trigger against the empty chamber.

  Oren said, ‘Walter?’

  Walter kept at it.

  Again, ‘Walter?’ Oren held a box of .22 bullets.

  ‘Give them,’ Walter said.

  Walter crammed the bullets into the magazine. But there was a new knocking and scraping against the roof in the back of the house. Oren’s friends were climbing the ladder again. Heavy steps crossed the roof.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ Walter said. Tears and sweat filled his eyes as he tried to load his gun.

  From behind the mattress covering the fireplace there was a noise of sucking air. And a crash. Flesh against stone. Walter’s eyes turned bright with fear.

  Cristofer keened.

  Oren went to the mattress and shoved it.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said.

  Oren said, ‘Don’t you want to know?’ He pushed the mattress from the fireplace.

  Lane Charles’s body lay on the fireplace grate. His head was crushed. His neck broken. One of his shoulders was dislocated and thrust to where his chest should be. One knee still in the chimney. The other jammed into his ribcage. Insects working on his face.

  Cristofer keened. Walter panicked. And made a sound like Cristofer’s. He raised his rifle and shot a bullet into Lane Charles’s body as if it might crawl into the room. The corpse made a rotten sigh. Walter shot it again. He swung the gun barrel around the room. Aimed at me. At Oren. At Cristofer. Then he limped to the open window and yelled, ‘No more.’

  The window framed him. They could have shot him. He seemed to forget himself. The way some scared people lose muscle and mental control. ‘What do you want?’ he yelled. The sun rising over the hill shined on his chest and face and made his skin golden. ‘What do you want?’ he yelled again. His eyes were watery and red.

  Outside in the yard Oren’s girlfriend yelled back, ‘I want you, baby.’ And she laughed.

  One of the men yelled, ‘And your wife. I want your wife.’

  That more or less slapped Walter. He ducked so that the lower wall shielded him. He jammed the rifle barrel out the window. And squinted into the sunlight. He yelled, ‘I’ll give you our girl.’

  I needed a moment before I knew that he meant me. I said, ‘You coward.’

  Mom said, ‘No.’ But quiet.

  Cristofer stood by the shelves.

  I rushed Walter. If I’d been stronger I would have thrown him out the window on to the porch. I would have climbed out after him. And kicked him into the yard with the rotting chickens. And the dead dog.

  But he pointed the rifle at me.

  ‘No,’ Mom said again.

  Walter yelled through the window, ‘I’m bringing her out. We have nothing more to give you. I’m bringing her out.’ He nudged me toward the door with the rifle. ‘Go.’

  ‘You’re weak,’ I said. ‘If you don’t get what you want you take it from others. You’re a thief.’

  ‘Go,’ he said. And jabbed me.

  Oren’s girlfriend called from the yard, ‘Send her out.’

  Mom got to her feet. Said, ‘No.’

  Walter ignored her. For the first time ever. ‘I don’t like you,’ Walter said to me. ‘You’re filthy and you have filthy habits. I’ve put up with you. Now get the hell out.’ He thrust the barrel at me.

  I looked at Oren. He said, ‘Your turn.’

  I looked at Mom. She was terrified.

  Cristofer keened.

  ‘Shut up,’ Walter said to him.

  He keened louder.

  Walter aimed the gun at him. And squeezed the trigger. The bullet cracked a shelf behind him. Cristofer stared at Walter. And made no more noise.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said. I moved the furniture that blocked the door. But I told Walter, ‘I know what you did. I know why these people are here. They don’t want me. They want you and Mom.’

  ‘Get the hell out of the house,’ he said.

  Then Cristofer charged across the room. He grabbed Walter’s rifle. Wrested it from him. And swung it at him. Missed. But he’d knocked the wind out of Walter’s anger.

  Cristofer dropped the gun on the floor. Went back to his corner.

  Oren clapped his hands. As if Cristofer had put on a show just for him. Oren said, ‘It’s about time.’

  Walter sank to the floor. Like he was horrified by what he’d done.

  Oren’s friends turned on their music. Playing it through speakers in the truck beds. They kept the sound low. Hardly got into the house. But Oren stood up and danced around the room.

  Walter glared at him.

  When Oren passed me he took one of my hands. Pulled me to him. Tried to dance with me.

  I was still trembling from Walter. I asked, ‘What are you doing?’

  He tried to spin me. ‘It’s the symmetry of chaos,’ he said. ‘It’s balanced disproportion. Unblemished fragmentation—’

  I pushed him away.

  He went to Mom. He held one of her hands. Put an arm around her waist. Danced again. He could have danced as easily with a stone. He let her go. Danced on his own.

  ‘What have you done?’ Walter asked him.

  Oren just danced.

  The song ended. The people turned up the next one. Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. ‘I Put a Spell on You.’ Oren danced over to Cristofer and bounced to the beat. A smile spread across Cristofer’s face. He bounced too.

  ‘What have you done?’ Walter asked again.

  Oren danced over to him. Followed by Cristofer. Oren mouthed along with the music.

  Walter said, ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  Oren laughed. And said, ‘When are you going to learn? You can’t kill a man twice.’ A glimmer came into Walter’s eyes. Understanding? Fear? But he said, ‘You’re insane.’

  The people cranked up the Rolling Stones. ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ Oren and Cristofer bounced and raced around the room. In the wash and rush of sound. Jumping over the green chair. Slamming against the walls. Shouting and laughing and keening. If there was symmetry in that chaos I missed it.

  The sun rose high and the house warmed. Thousands of flies came down the chimney. Buzzing and darting. They landed on Lane Charles’s body and crawled on his face. And in and out of his shirt. They drank from the cuts on his skin. They flashed through the room. Drunk on blood and pus. Landed on our arms and legs. In our hair. Tasting us for later eating. A swarm clung to the rag bandage on Walter’s leg.

  Oren went to Lane Charles and bent low to him. He waved the flies away. Touched Lane Charles’s skin. Ran his fingers through his hair. A mother with her sleeping child. Oren mumbled a prayer. Or something that sounded like one. Then he left the body and sprawled on the green chair. His legs splayed. King Oren. Cristofer sat on the floor leaning against him. Oren ruffled his hair with his fingers and Cristofer laughed. Then Oren stopped ruffling and started tapping his fingers on Cristofer’s head in time to the music. Nine Inch Nails. Nirvana. Metallica. Slayer. Korn. On and on and on. As drilling as the buzzing flies.

  Mom sat on the floor by Walter. Her eyes frantic. She let a fly crawl across her ear. ‘Someone say something,’ she said.

  No one did.

  She stared at me as if talking was my job. She got up. Shook a cigarette from her pack of Newports. She paced from the kitchen to the bookshelves. She said, ‘If we all went outside together all at once what would they do?’

  No one answered.

  Mom stared at me. I stared at her. Walter swatted at the flies. A fever shined on his face. Cristofer laughed at Oren.

  Mom threw her cigarette to the floor. Kept pacing. ‘Someone,’ she said. And crossed to the kitchen. ‘Talk. Someone.’ She crossed to the shelves. ‘Say something.’

  Oren said, ‘Once upon a time—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Walter said.

  Oren was quiet. For a couple of min
utes. Then again, ‘Once upon a time—’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Oren

  ‘No,’ Lexi said. ‘Seriously. Shut up.’

  ‘And far, far away in the land of California,’ I said, ‘there was a grave robber who—’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said.

  ‘This is a true story,’ I said. ‘In the late nineteen-nineties, he cut up—’

  ‘I mean it,’ Lexi said.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Too close? Too recent? Fine. Plenty of other examples. These things are surprisingly common. Let’s return to an old one. Up until the early nineteenth century, do you know what they did with the bodies of executed criminals – let’s say the body of a woman who had killed her husband and child?’

  ‘Enough,’ Lexi said.

  Kay’s eyes were wide. She said to me, ‘I know you now.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘No one knows anyone. You said it yourself. We don’t even know ourselves.’

  She pulled another Newport from her pack with trembling fingers, hung it between her lips, and flicked her lighter three times before it lit.

  ‘Until the nineteenth century, they gibbeted the bodies,’ I said. ‘You know what gibbeting is? Do you know exactly what’s involved?’

  ‘We don’t want to know,’ Lexi said.

  ‘To gibbet a corpse,’ I said, ‘you dip it in tar – pine tar works well – and hang it up in an iron cage. It’s all about the spectacle. The tar keeps the body from rotting too fast. You want to give the townspeople plenty of time to see it. And the crows don’t mind. They peck right through.’ I ruffled Cristofer’s hair with my fingers, and he laughed. ‘But nineteenth-century medical sciences advanced as the medical sciences will, and doctors needed the executed bodies for anatomical study. The doctors convinced politicians to change the law. So no more gibbeting, which saddened many members of the public, especially the tar makers.’

  ‘You talk like a snake,’ Walter said.

  I said, ‘Then, with an eye toward the popular vote, politicians – being politicians – passed new laws saying that the worst criminals would be publicly dissected, which made the public happy again since everyone likes a corpse. But if for each problem there’s a solution, for each solution there’s also a problem, the problem in this case being that a dissection is much quicker than a rotting, and the public was hungry – I don’t think that’s too strong of a word – for the flesh and bones of criminals.’ I looked at Kay to see if she was listening. ‘As a quick aside, when we prepare bodies for medical study today, we use the chemical phenol, which also comes from tar, and along with keeping a corpse fresh, the phenol has a smell that makes you salivate. So every time medical students cut into cadavers they daydream about cheeseburgers—’